Sleepless in Skyhold
by cjulina
Summary: Cullen discovers he shares a mutual problem with the Inquisitor - the inability to sleep through the night.


Cullen chokes down the scream threatening to claw its way out with a loud gasp. Sweat sheets off him as prickles of terror multiply in cascading waves across his skin. Clammy hands reach up to press against his hammering heart. No matter how much air he gulps in, he can't breathe.

 _Calm down_ he orders himself. _Slow your breathing. The panic will pass. It was just a nightmare, a memory. You're safe._ _You're in Skyhold. You're not in Kinloch._ His eyes rivet on the hole in the roof that serves as a window in his loft. The sight of the open sky helps to quell some of the fear that is close to conquering him.

 _Breathe!_ He slowly counts as he inhales. _One. Two. Three. Four. Hold! One. Two. Three. Four. Exhale! One. Two. Three. Four._ He repeats the routine two more times, finally feeling the worst of the episode pass. And though he has not moved his eyes from the star-filled skies, he can feel the walls start pressing in, compressing down, cutting off the air. _I'm suffocating. I'm going to suffocate._

Cullen jolts out of his bed as the panic returns with its stranglehold and scrambles down the ladder. He has the presence of mind to grab a cloak to protect him from the icy bite of the winter air before crashing out the door. He startles the soldiers huddling around the fire burning on the rampart. He ought to admonish them, should command them to attend to their rounds. Instead he issues a gruff "As you were" order before shambling away from them.

He should be shivering from the contact of cold stone on his bare feet, instead he feels relief. Each stride helps to cool his overheated body. The bitter winds dry his sweat soaked clothes. The expansive, lonely space stills the whirling thoughts of his mind. And he can breathe. Finally inhale without hindrance. He gulps in air, enjoying the icy burn as he finally lets go of the brutish nightmares that haunt him every evening.

Cullen looks back over his shoulder, shuddering at the thought of returning to his rooms. He's not ready to face the perceived pitying looks from his soldiers, certain they believe that he's seen too much, endured too much, and is just one poorly thought-out decision away from failing them, failing the Inquisition. And he is undoubtedly not ready to try to return to his bed, knowing that the demons of his memories will return to haunt him.

He plods on, finally settling the cloak that has been forgottenly clutched in his strong fist around his shoulders. Cullen grumbles as he trods on broken stone, questioning his decision to not to return to his quarters, if only long enough to fetch his boots. Instead he carefully picks his way through the rubble, silently reprioritizing the need to repair the broken parts of the ramparts. He pauses at the stairs that will take him to the gardens and to where the shrine is tucked away. He considers spending the rest of the night kneeling in front of Andraste's statue, seeking peace in the recitation of the Chant. He has done the same every evening, finding no solace and he would rather not experience the bitter taste of disappointment again.

He continues trudging down the rampart and turns a bend, finding that he is not alone in haunting the fortifications of Skyhold. That it is the Inquisitor, with her hands braced against the top of the wall as she stares out across the mountains, is in no doubt. Her pale skin, even in the dimmest of light, always appears to be perpetually kissed by moon glow. Tonight, in the fullness of both moons, she seems ablaze with inner radiance. He has wondered, more often than he should, if her unusually pale skin is distinctive of the Lavellan clan or if it is something unique to her.

Cullen is surprised to find her there. It was shortly before dusk she returned to the stronghold, road-weary, battle-weary. Her shoulders hunching like the weight of the world rested upon them. _And the fate of the world does rest upon them_ he thought grimly at the time. He had pulled Leliana and Josephine aside, the three advisors quickly deciding to give the Inquisitor a few days of rest before piling upon her all the missives and critically important situations facing the Inquisition.

He hesitates to approach. Temptation threatens whenever he doesn't have a specific reason to talk with her. He has been afraid she would sense his attraction, his admiration that goes beyond her role as leader. He worries that the bashful, awkward stuttering conversation that occurs whenever topics stray from the Inquisition's work will reveal his secret desires. By all rights, she should be in her chambers, sleeping away the weariness, losing herself in soft dreams in the Fade. Instead she stands there looking at him expectedly.

Cullen rubs at his neck nervously, hoping he will not have to lie to her as to why he is wandering the fortifications in the deep night. "Good eve, Inquisitor," he says while he steps forward to stand next to her.

She cocks her head at the full moons, contemplating a few moments and then replies, "More like good morn, Commander. Sunrise is just but a few hours away."

He gives a fatigued chuckle, settling his elbows on the top of the wall, and does not quite look at her. "I suppose you are right."

They settle into a companionable silence as they study the beauty of the mountains in the moonlight. Cullen has just begun to shiver, cursing silently at his lack of wisdom for wearing nothing more than coarse linen pants and a thin cotton shirt in the winter night. The heavy woolen cloak would have helped stem the cold but for his lack of boots. He is about to make his apologies to the Inquisitor so he can retreat to the warmth of his quarters when she finally speaks.

Her normally lyrical voice is layered with fatigue as she asks, "Are you also having trouble sleeping tonight?"

"I ... I," he sputters. The last thing he wants to admit is that he hasn't slept a full night since before Haven fell. He would have to divulge about his almost constant nightmares and the causes of them. He does not want to disclose his failures in Kirkwall, the tortured memories of Kinloch Hold, nor the powerlessness he experienced when Haven was attacked. And he is certainly not ready to discuss lyrium and how his abstinence of the blue fluid is close to bringing him to his knees.

He stares down into her deep green eyes, finally realizing what she has just admitted. "You're having trouble sleeping?"

"I always do when I am in Skyhold," she confesses with a slight frown.

"Is there a problem with your chambers?" he asks. "If the bed is too soft or not soft enough Josephine can ..."

She interrupts him with a sharp shake of her head. "No, the bed is fine. More than fine. It's a very luxurious bed."

"Then what is the problem, if I may ask?" He is eager to help, keen to remove whatever burden is hindering her, if only to distract him from his own worries and perhaps relieve some of his own sleepless nights with the effort.

"I'm Dalish." She says it as if there is no need to further expand on her succinct reply.

He rubs at his neck in confusion. "I don't understand."

She gives a sad sigh. "I know." Her gaze snaps away from his, eyeing the space just over his shoulder. "I should go. Good eve, Commander." The Inquisitor gives him no chance to reply before she vaults over the side of the rampart. Cullen rushes over to find that she has landed lightly halfway down a set of stairs. She easily skips down the rest of the steps and is halfway across the courtyard when a messenger appears jogging down the ramparts from the direction of his office.

"Commander! Sister Leliana wanted you to see this right away. It is an update of all sightings of Red Templars."

He sighs heavily, knowing that even if he were inclined to try to get more sleep, duty now calls.

Cullen works through the rest of the morning, carefully marking out every location noted in the updated reports. He studies it, hoping to find some sense to the movements, trying to discern any pattern that might give the Inquisition the upper hand when it comes to the Red Templar threat.

He stays busy the rest of the day. There are meetings with his subordinates, orders issued in his gruff, concise manner, reviews of the recruit training, supply inventories to sign off on. Missives and reports pile up on his desk and are dealt with as quickly as they are placed.

All the while he contemplates the Inquisitor's puzzling confession. He has no clue as to why her being Dalish would be a hindrance to sleeping. He ponders asking Solas but realizes that would be a mistake. The elven mage has as much disdain for the Dalish ways as Sera. There are some Dalish amongst the soldiers but he decides questioning them would possibly be considered some sort of cultural insult, nor would he risk the possibility of exposing the Inquisitor's secret by causing idle gossip.

He seeks his bed when the bell tolls the second hour of the morning. Despite his exhaustion, slumber continues to be elusive. Fear of what awaits him in the Fade, concern that the nightmares will bring more panic, and still pondering the Inquisitor's enigmatic answer keeps him tossing until the bell peals the fourth hour.

Before the fifth bell rings, he scrambles from his bed, panic descending, walls seemingly pressing in, and the need for open sky overwhelming. At least this time he has the sense of mind to shove feet into boots before bursting out of his office. His rushed stride carries him quickly down the battlements, around the bend, to where the Inquisitor is yet again staring out over the landscape.

Cullin studies the Inquisitor who appears even more fragile than she did the previous night. He notes the pale bruising beginning to show under her eyes. Her movements are heavy, lacking her usual grace. Her normally brilliant green eyes are now dull. His concern for her allows him to let go the last of the panic.

She idly plays with the lacing on her tunic before giving a weak laugh. "You and I should start a club. Invite all our fellow insomniacs here every night for games and prizes." Her attempt at humor falls flat with both of them.

"Inquisitor." Cullen stops to clear his throat. "Yesterday you said you can't sleep while in Skyhold because you're Dalish. As much as I have tried to figure your meaning, I still don't understand."

"I know," she says with a wry smile. "The sheml..." She looks contrite as she corrects herself. "That is, the human ways are not the ways of the Dalish. We are constantly on the move with the halla herds and our aravels. At night we retreat to the aravels, eight to ten of us piling into one," she continues with a wistful smile, "forced to sleep tightly bunched together in the small space. There was always heat from bodies to either side, the comforting touch of their skin. I would fall asleep to the lullaby of soft breaths of those around me. Even when the heat would drive us to sleep under the stars, we still slept bunched together, for protection, for safety, and because it's our way.

She returns her attention to nervously plucking at the lacing of her tunic. "In Haven, I could pretend. There was always the sound of soldiers making their rounds, people coming and going at all hours but here, in my chambers, it is too cold, too quiet, too ..."

"Lonely," he finishes for her.

She whispers a sad, "Yes." Nothing is said for a few moments and then she bashfully says to him, "You must think I'm being silly."

"Not at all, Inquisitor." He waits for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "When I left to start my Templar training, it was difficult. I had shared a room with my brother but then found myself in a dormitory with thirty others. There was too much noise, too many changes and I found it impossible to sleep at first. Time passed and I adjusted. You will too."

"I suppose," she says with an uncertain shrug, "I will figure a way to adapt. I just need to give it time." He can sense her doubt in the quaver of her voice and wonders if he's failed her in some way with his advice.

Before he can inquire, she straightens determinedly, smoothes out her tunic, and gives him a terse nod. "I should go try to sleep a few hours. Thank you, Commander." She takes a few steps before turning back. "Is there anything I can do to help with your own sleepless nights?"

He is touched that she is concerned. "No, Inquisitor. I will adjust eventually."

She gives him a strained smile and disappears down the stairs.

Cullen spends another day filled with requisitions, training, reports, meetings, and a significant amount of time thinking of the Inquisitor. When night falls, the dreams and the resulting panic return. He rushes out of his quarters as he did the previous two nights but this time, he takes the door opposite of the direction he has been finding the Inquisitor. He believes he is a coward for not wanting to face her but he is still unwilling to confess why he roams the walls of Skyhold every night. It takes him longer to feel the tendrils of dread release him and by the time he thinks he can make an effort at sleep, his duties are demanding his attention.

Full night has fallen. His armor is safely stowed on the nearby stand. Clad once again in his linen trousers and shirt, he stands, one hand on a ladder's rung, ready to haul himself up to his bed. He fears yet yearns for sleep.

There is a quick, harsh knock on his door. Almost immediately a runner comes through the entry, handing the Commander a sealed letter. The messenger departs before Cullen has even finished breaking the wax seal.

 _Commander,_

 _I would like to be assigned a bunk in the barracks with the soldiers._

It is unsigned but there is no doubt that it is from the Inquisitor. He can sense her fatigue in the terse sentence. He sympathizes with her, shares her frustration with sleepless nights and days spent in an exhausted muddle. Cullen isn't surprised by the request for he had suggested that she find a means to adjust to Skyhold but bunking with the common soldiers was not a solution, not a workable one anyway.

He could simply send her a reply, denying the request but he feels he must explain in person, attempt to soften the refusal with kind, empathetic words. He dons his boots and places a heavy woolen cloak around his shoulders.

Cullen goes first to ramparts, striding purposefully to the place where he has been finding her the past several nights. When he finds it absent of her presence, he goes next to her quarters. There is no answer when he knocks. He could continue to search for her but knows from experience it will be fruitless. The Inquisitor is skilled at not being found when that is her purpose. He is hopeful that she will return to her quarters soon. He opens the door and climbs up the stairs. It is the first time he's been in her room and he finds it exactly as she described. Too large, too cold, and too lonely for a woman who has spent most of her life living in the close confines of her clan.

He moves to the fireplace, placing more wood on the dying fire. He tosses his cloak on a nearby chair before pacing for a time, contemplating how to kindly reject her request until weariness descends. He settles on one of the chairs positioned by the fireplace. It's too low to accommodate his long legs comfortably but it is soft and wide and the heat of the fire makes him drowsy. Just as his eyes are fluttering shut he is struck with a solution but even his excitement with the idea is not enough to keep him from falling asleep.

Cullen has no idea how long he has slept. He wakes abruptly, for a moment uncertain of where he is, unsure of why he is there. Then he sees her. The last night he saw her he was struck by how tired she appeared. Tonight, in the orange and red glow from the fire, he is shocked. Dark blooms of purple sit below sunken eyes that are dull. Her movements listless. And she is looking at him disappointedly, yet acceptingly.

"You did not need to come here to tell me no. I realize now it was a unconsidered request."

"Sleep with me," he blurts out. The bright bloom that appears on her cheeks pales in comparison to the blaze of embarrassment exploding across his own face.

The Inquisitor is stunned, stammering out a quick, "W...w...what?"

He rubs at his neck nervously, turning away from her in his mortification. "Maker's breath! That sounded better in my thoughts."

He feels her gentle touch on his arm. "You wish to sleep with me?"

"Yes. No!," he huffs fretfully. "I mean not in _that_ way."

He can hear in the tone of her voice that she is amused by his awkwardness. "Then what, exactly, do you mean?"

Cullen turns to face her, reaching to grasp the pommel of his sword that isn't there. He fidgets, unsure of what to do with his hands and then takes a long, cleansing breath. "You need to sleep to be at your best yet you find it impossible to sleep alone. Let me help. Let me stay here with you and, perhaps, you'll be soothed by the sounds of my breaths, the heat from my body. That is what you miss, isn't it? It may not be the same as being surrounded by your clan but will you at least try?"

"I would not want to impose," she answers uncertainly.

"It would be no imposition, Inquisitor." His mouth is suddenly dry, fear begins to tingle along his skin. He does not want to lessen himself in her eyes, nor does he want to reveal his defects. "Truthfully, this may help me as much as it helps you."

He is thankful that she doesn't ask, thankful that she simply nods her agreement. "I would be grateful, Commander."

They stare awkwardly at each other for a few moments before parting. She moves to search through the drawers of a dresser as he banks the fire. He then sits on the end of the large bed and begins removing his boots as she disappears behind a privacy screen.

Cullen is greatly relieved when she emerges wearing a shapeless sleeping shift until she steps in front of the glowing fire. Backlit by the soft light, the solid seeming gown becomes transparent, showing her lean legs, her tiny waist. His thoughts immediately turn to the many fantasies he's had of her, of slowly peeling away her clothing, of running his hands over her naked skin. He begins to doubt he can do this, that he can suppress the desire he's felt for her all these months, that he can endure the temptation of having her just inches from him.

He rises, licking his dry lips. "I guess we should do this. Go to bed, I mean." He realizes he must sound like the town idiot. "To sleep. We should go to sleep."

She smiles kindly but doesn't quite hide her amusement at his nervousness. "Yes, we should," she answers as she slides under the thick bedding." She rolls to face the fire, slightly curling up on her side.

He moves to the other side of the large bed, considering then rejecting the notion of sleeping atop the thick quilt. He slides in, rolling immediately so his back is facing hers. "Good night, Inquisitor."

He hears her voice sleepily say, "You as well, Commander."

Cullen has no idea how long it is before he hears her breathing slow into the steady sound of full sleep. He only knows that he is struggling. He wants to turn towards her, to wrap his arms around her and pull her tight to his chest. He wants to lose himself in the scent of her, to run his calloused fingers along her skin to discover if it's as silken as he's imagined. Instead he keeps himself rigidly facing away from her, concentrating on slowing his breathing, trying to force himself to embrace the call of the Fade.

Nightmares do not visit him this night, though his sleep is still as tortured as ever. He dreams of her - of pouty lips smiling as he leans in to taste them, of breathy sighs as he nibbles down the length of her neck, of a stuttering whine as he cups her firm breasts.

His slow journey to awareness is confusing. He expects to wake to aching joints, a pounding headache, and skin prickling from intense cold. Instead there's a comfortable warmth along his side, a pleasant weight on his chest. He is surrounded by the scent of jasmine and elfroot, mixed with freshly turned loam. And he is aroused, such as he has never experienced in his life.

Eyes still closed, his arm reaches up to the strange weight on his chest, hand sliding into silky strands, fingers scratching softly.

He fully awakens when he hears a moan. The Inquisitor, propping her head on the hand she has pressed against his chest, blinks sleepily. "Mmm. Do that again."

He complies before he realizes what he is doing. She gives another throaty moan, one that shoots right through him. He longs to pull her up to him, to crash their lips together in a heated kiss. He wishes to roll her under him, to press their bodies closely together. And, by the Maker, he desires nothing more than to hear her needy moan as he sinks into her sweet heat. He wants to see her undone and know that he is the one that brings her to that point. He jerks back his hand and does what he can to disentangle himself from her.

She gives a lopsided grin, runs a hand through her sleep tousled hair. He thinks she has never looked so beautiful, so sultry. She sits up, stretching like a sensual cat. His arousal increases, pleasure starting to turn painful. He scoots back, pressing his back firmly against the headboard, artfully arranging the bedding to disguise the evidence of his interest. "Good morning, Inquisitor."

She looks at him through sleep-hooded eyes with an amused smile on her lips. "We've slept together, Commander. Do you think you could call me by my name now?"

Cullen is hesitant. The use of her title has been a protection, an attempt at keeping their relationship strictly professional so that he wouldn't skirt the line that should not be crossed but they've already pole vaulted over the line. A night spent tangled together is the antithesis of professional distance. "As you wish, Ellana, but only if you return the courtesy."

"Of course, Cullen." The sound of his name falling from Ellana's lips sends new bolts of passion cascading over him and he realizes he must get out of there before he does something foolish.

She rises off the bed, stretching once again. Cullen can barely keep from reaching for her, only just keeps himself from lifting her on top of him so she can feel the intensity of the desire he has for her. He is pleased that his voice is not gruff with passion when he asks, "Did you sleep well, Ellana?"

She turns her gaze back to him with a soft smile. "I've not slept so well since leaving my clan. Thank you, Cullen."

He waits until she moves over to the privacy screen before attempting to get out of the bed. He needs to retreat to his quarters, his arousal well past the point of agonizing. If he doesn't get to privacy soon so he can take the matter in hand, he feels like he will implode.

He is near the door when he hears Ellana speak.

"Cullen, can we sleep together? Again, I mean." Only her face is visible around the corner of the screen, her delicate cheeks beautifully blushing.

His first impulse is to say no. He does not know if he can endure another torturous night having her just mere inches from him. He does not think he will have the strength to deny his urges yet the word, "Yes," tumbles quickly from his lips.

It is as if the sun is shining from her face when her smile grows. "Good. Perhaps we can have dinner together beforehand. I'd like to get to know you better now that we're sleeping together."

The images he really doesn't need floating through his mind at this moment can't stop him from responding with, "I'd like that."

"Me too," she answers somewhat nervously.

"You said that."

"I did, didn't I?" Her nervousness grows. "It's just that I've wanted to get to know you better but didn't know how until now."

As her nervousness grows, his dissipates. Perhaps she is interested in him beyond his role as Commander of her army. Cullen can't keep from smirking when he says, "Till tonight, Ellana. I look forward to sleeping with you."


End file.
